


If You Never Shoot, You'll Never Know

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil sits next to him when it's all said and done, and he looks disheveled with his hands coated in blood. He hasn't washed them yet. Dan doesn't ask him to, just leans into him, or it might be the other way around. Maybe it's a mutual thing. Maybe they're both holding each other up, sitting tall in the middle of all this chaos. </p><p>Maybe they are Gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Never Shoot, You'll Never Know

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Enjoy this monster of a fic.
> 
> There's angst in this. Lots of it. Prepare yourselves.
> 
> Warnings; very ooc Dan and Phil, violence, implied drug use, and smut (lol)

They wake up to the sun shining in through dusty, broken windows. It fills the room with little specks of light, illuminating bits of their lives. Patterned bed sheets, Dan's old pair of shoes, Phil's hair. Dan left his amber lamp on again the night before, and it washes the room in an orange glow. Makes something dirty look beautiful.

Dan finds the energy to move after a while, and rubs sleep from his eyes. He props himself up on his elbow and glances down at Phil, who's already awake and blinking stoically at him. He looks dull in the mornings, so drained of color he could almost blend in with the stained walls. Dan's never seen someone prettier.

"Morning," Phil says, and his voice is deep, laced with sleep and last night's alcohol binge.

"Morning," is Dan's reply. He can't really feel his throat. "Can you go make coffee?"

Phil nods and tosses back the blankets. They hit Dan in the face, and that's all he needs to go flying back onto the bed again, head landing on feather pillows. He doesn't want to get up. Wants to lie with Phil all day and stare at the ceiling. One of them had decided to cover it with glow-in-the-dark stars a while ago. He doesn't know which of them it was. They were probably high or drunk or both.

Phil's already got coffee brewing. Dan can smell it permeating through their flat. He relishes in the scent, wraps a blanket around himself and basks in it. It's familiar and warm. Safe.

When he finally forces himself out of bed, there's a cup of coffee waiting for him on the counter. Phil is standing over the sink, scrubbing at a plate that seems to be clean enough already. There's soap on his nose.

Dan comes up behind him, gently wraps a hand in thick strands of black hair, and Phil spins around at that. He smiles a little, tiny quirks of the lips, and Dan kisses him. It's all mornings and coffee and stale sleep. It's all them.

He then takes the dish out of Phil's hand, dries it on his night pants, and stores it away in the cabinet. His thumb brushes across Phil's nose, wiping off sudsy water. Phil has a habit of cleaning when he's stressed, or worried, or both. He'll scrub at everything until nothing resembles what it was before.

"Let's go to the skate park," Dan says, because Phil loves it there, and it's nice out. He can tell without even having to stick a foot out the door. Their houseplants are practically singing from all the warm sun shining in on them.

"Okay," Phil whispers, tugging Dan back to their bedroom so that they can put on proper clothes.

Their closet is a mess, something that Dan sees as a metaphor for their life. Neither of them ever bother to clean it. Their clothes don't match anymore, haven't for a long time. Dan finds that he doesn't care all that much.

\---

The park is nearly empty when they get there, always is for the most part. Dan spots PJ right off, sitting at the edge of the skate ramp. He tangles his hand with Phil's, and they head towards him.

PJ looks like he hasn't slept in days, t-shirt rumpled, hair matted. His eyes are glassy as he glances up at them. Smiles a little. He's high on something. Cocaine or heroin or both.

Dan finds that there's a beautiful sort of chaos about him.

"Hey," he says as they sit beside him.

"Hey," Dan responds, setting his skateboard on the ground. It's dull compared to them, he thinks. Its wheels are scuffed, and the picture on its bottom is unrecognizable anymore.

"What you up to?" PJ asks. Same old fucking small talk that Dan hates.

"Dan wanted to skate for a bit," Phil answers, because he knows Dan. Knows that Dan won't answer any question he doesn't deem important. Meaningful. Dan's a fucking cliche in the way that everything has to mean something.

"I talked to Chris about the thing you asked for," PJ tells Dan, sort of leaning over Phil to catch the brunet's eyes. Dan nudges him back with the tips of his fingers.

"What'd he say, then?" Dan asks, tongue shooting out to lick the corner of his mouth. He catches the way Phil's eyes jump down to his lips.

"He's got one for you," PJ says, smiling. "Told you he'd have one, didn't I? He's stopping by here in a bit. He said he'd bring it with him." He looks fucking smug. Dan doesn't like it.

"I'll get it from him before Phil and I leave, then," the brown eyed man says, standing. He bends down to grab his skateboard, pressing a kiss to the top of Phil's head in the process. The older man just smiles, the blue in his eyes twinkling as he watches Dan head to the edge of the ramp.

Dan does this thing with his foot, puts a little pressure on the back of his skateboard, and then he's flying down the ramp. His open shirt flutters round him, whipping at his elbows. His hair stands straight up as the wind pushes through it. It's all curled and unwashed and Phil just wants to run his fingers through it. There's this smile on his face that could give the sun a run for its money.

Phil shakes his head with a grin to match Dan's. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "babe, you look so cool!"

He hears Dan laugh at that, and then the younger man holds his arms straight out at his sides. As he skates back up the side of the ramp, Phil leans forward to catch him in a quick kiss. Their teeth clank, then they're both laughing, and Dan's falling off his skateboard.

"You two are disgustingly cute," PJ mutters, grabbing an open bottle of liquor at his side.

Phil rolls his eyes and snatches it from him, bringing it to his mouth. He takes a long drink of it until he can't feel the back of his throat anymore.

\---

Dan doesn't like Chris all that much because the man's loud and annoying and just not his cup of tea, really. But they've been friends for as long as Dan's been with Phil, so he figures he can't get rid of him now.

Plus, Chris helps Dan find side jobs and also gives him free cocaine, so Dan keeps him around.

They're all sitting on the side of the skate ramp now, and it's almost dark outside. The wind's blowing, and Dan is cold, but he's also drunk, so it doesn't bother him that much. Phil, however, is shivering and curled into Dan's side. Dan wraps an arm around him and watches as Chris pulls something out of his bag.

"Be fucking careful with this, okay?" he says, handing it to Dan. "The safety's still on."

Dan takes the gun, and it weighs heavy in his hands. He turns it around a few times, pointer finger resting on the trigger. He wants to pull it.

"We'll meet up with you tomorrow night, yeah?" PJ says, and then he and Chris are standing. They've both got this nervous kind of look in their eyes, and Dan doesn't know why. He doesn't say anything as they walk away, leaving him and Phil alone.

Dan's still staring at the gun in his hand, and Phil's just lit a cigarette. He's puffing away on it, blowing the smoke up towards grimy street lamps and tree tops and stars.

PJ and Chris left the alcohol here, Dan notes. He grabs a bottle of it and takes a long drink. Phil watches him, eyes alight with something. Fucking flames of blue and yellow. They're Dan's favorite thing to look at.

"Be careful with that," Phil says quietly, eyes flashing to the gun that Dan's carelessly spinning around on his finger.

"The safety's on," Dan says, and then he smiles and points the gun at Phil, pretending to pull the trigger.

Phil jumps a little, eyes widening. He slaps it away and hisses, "Don't do that, Dan."

Dan pouts and then presses the barrel of the gun directly at Phil's chest. The alcohol makes his brain feel funny as his finger pushes down on the trigger. The safety's still on. He's glad that it's still on.

"I'm not fucking kidding!" Phil snaps, dropping his cigarette to grab hold of Dan's wrist.

Dan smiles and yanks his wrist away from Phil. He points it at the older man's head and mouths, "bang, bang, bang."

Phil rolls his eyes and jumps to his feet, kicking the liquor bottle sat at Dan's side. It flies into the black void that is the skate ramp, hitting the bottom a moment later. Dan hears it shatter.

When he turns back to look at Phil, the older man's already stomping away. Dan can't see his face, but he knows he must be angry.

"The fucking safety is on!" Dan shouts at his retreating form. The wind is blowing harder now, and he feels nauseous as it hits him in the face. When he stands, it takes all he has not to fall back down on his ass.

Phil's a good ways ahead of him when he finally catches his balance enough to actually walk. He shoves the gun deep into the pocket of his jacket, no, it's Phil's jacket. Phil's jacket.

"Phil!" He calls, jogging to catch up to the other man. His legs are moving, but his brain feels detached from his body. He's not in control anymore. He wonders if he ever really was.

"Baby," he says, breathing heavily as he walks alongside Phil now. "Baby, I was messing around."

"Well it wasn't funny," Phil says, and he's not meeting Dan's gaze. The moon hits his face, casting shadows around his nose and cheekbones. Dan's never wanted to kiss him so badly.

"I know," Dan says, nodding. He grabs Phil's wrist, still unsteady on his feet. He wobbles a little, but manages to stay upright. The taste of liquor is still prevalent in his mouth. "I know. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."

He doesn't wait for Phil to say anything, just stumbles forward and kisses his cheek. His arms come up to clumsily wrap around Phil's waist, and then they're hugging tightly. He feels Phil sigh, their chests pressed together.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, knuckles bumping as they go.

\---

The moment Dan wakes up the next morning, he feels bad about the night before. Phil's still sleeping beside him, hair splayed across a pillow. Some of it covers up his eyes. Dan brushes it aside with the tips of his fingers.

He gets out of bed and heads into the bathroom, turning the shower on. When the water's so hot it fucking burns his skin, he steps under it. There's cheap body wash and watered down shampoo sitting on the shelves. He almost finds it funny that he and Phil buy what they don't need. Feather pillows. Silk sheets. Expensive coffee, and unpronounceable alcohol.

He grabs some kind of soap and uses it to wash his hair. It smells like vanilla and blueberries. Phil obviously picked it out.

He dresses in something that he doesn't remember buying. The gun Chris gave him is still tucked inside Phil's jacket. He takes it out and slides it into one of their dresser drawers. By the time he's slipping his shoes on, Phil's awake.

"Where are you going?" He asks, and there's this edgy look in his eyes like he dares Dan to say, "out."

Dan sits on the edge of the bed, shoe half on, and reaches out. His fingertips brush the side of Phil's mouth, and the older man parts his lips out of habit. Then, Dan pulls him forward and slams their lips together. Phil tastes of sleep and cigarettes and warmth. Dan wonders if he'll ever get sick of those flavors.

"Don't you mean, where are we going?" He asks once they separate. "Get your shoes on. I'm taking you out to breakfast and a movie."

Phil raises his eyebrows and asks, "Why?"

Dan huffs and leans down, pushing his shoe on the rest of the way. "Because I want to. Because I love you. Why does everything have to have a reason with you?"

Phil glares at the back of Dan's head and throws the covers aside. "You're one to talk," he says, getting up. After rummaging through their closet until he finds something clean to wear, he puts his shoes on.

Dan sighs and stands up, spinning Phil around until they're facing each other. He's still taller than Phil, has been since they first got together. Dan vaguely remembers that Phil was once the tall one, back when they were just friends. Just friends with habit of sleeping together.

"Let's have a good day, alright?" He says softly, hand coming up to cup Phil's cheek.

The other man sighs, leaning into Dan's touch. His eyes aren't bright, not like they usually are. When he says, "I'm just dreading tonight," it almost looks like he's going to cry.

So Dan kisses him. Dan kisses him like everything is okay, like there's nothing to worry about. And when they break apart, he whispers, "tonight is going to go perfectly fine. We've got this, all right?"

"All right," Phil breathes back, and Dan peppers his face with kisses until he's smiling.

"Love you," he says, and he's never meant anything more in his entire life.

"Love you too," Phil returns, and then he's grabbing Dan's hand and tugging him towards the front door.

Dan doesn't miss the other man's free hand shooting out to snatch a baggy off their dresser. Doesn't miss Phil shoving it in his back pocket. Doesn't miss the way the air gets knocked from his lungs.

\---

The cafe they go to is cute. Cute, and well put together. Something Dan definitely is not.

Phil's all too excited to sit at a table next to the big glass windows. Dan slides into the seat across from him, and their eyes meet. Phil grins at him, and for a moment, Dan thinks that this cafe is probably meant for Phil. Or maybe Phil's meant for it.

A woman comes over to take down their orders, and they both ask for a coffee to start off with. No matter how many options they're given, Dan knows coffee will always be their morning drink of choice. It's something that is so familiar to both of them.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Phil says, hand dipping into his back pocket as he stands up.

"Don't be too long," Dan says, and his hands clench into fists under the table. Phil only nods and walks away. Walks away towards disgusting bathrooms and bad habits.

Bad habits that Dan introduced him to.

He wonders if their love is only real when they're both high.

The waitress brings over their coffees, and Phil's still in the bathroom, so Dan orders food for him. The waitress is older, with crinkling skin and grey hair. He wonders how long she's been stuck with this job. Wonders if she's worked here since she realized that being born in this dead end town meant never getting out of it.

She passes Phil on her way back to the kitchen, and they smile at each other like they've been friends for years. One of Phil's fatal flaws is that he's so genuine in everything he does. He tries to please people before pleasing himself. That's why when he says, 'I love you,' it's difficult for Dan to believe him.

"I'm starving," Phil says, sitting down across from Dan. "Have you already ordered for us?"

"Yeah," Dan says, and Phil throws him a little smile. His eyes are red, pupils dilated, and Dan's used to this. Used to this side of Phil. He reaches up to wipe traces of powder from under Phil's nose, and thinks that the older man is still beautiful. A beautiful compilation of everything bad.

Phil reaches across the table and grabs his hand, tangling their fingers together. He brings Dan's hand to his mouth, lips pressing against his knuckles. Soft and warm, like sweet summer days, and the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"You look so cool," he whispers, breath fanning across the skin of Dan's hands. He's got a wicked smile on his face, and the blue rims of his eyes are barely visible anymore.  _ If anyone looks cool, _ Dan thinks,  _ it's him. _

\---

The theater they go to is one they've been to countless times before. It's got a vintage feel to it, which is probably why they both like it so much. It reminds Dan of everything broken and old, but still pretty.

They buy tickets to some movie that's playing in French, much to Phil's disarray. He's never been one for reading subtitles.

They choose seats near the back, away from everything else. It's something they've always done, and Dan relishes in just how empty the place is. There's hardly anyone in here with them. A hundred different thoughts fly into his mind as Phil puts a hand on his knee.

The previews start up, and Phil can't sit still in his seat. He's constantly tapping his leg, fingers dancing along Dan's denim jeans.

"You alright?" Dan leans in to ask him, eyebrows furrowed together.

"Yeah, 'm fine," he mutters, and when he looks at Dan, the younger man almost gasps.

Phil's eyes are bloodshot, and he almost looks like some sort of demon with how black they are. He's high, fuck, that much would've been obvious to anyone, and Dan can't breathe.

But, he doesn't say anything. Pretends not to worry. Pretends not to care. So what, Phil's doing cocaine at least thrice a week now? So what, it used to be a fun thing they'd do every so often. Never every day. Dan, for as long as he can remember, never wanted to be addicted to anything besides good music and sloppy kisses. He remembers he told Phil that once. He wonders if the older man even cared.

The movie starts, and Dan shuts his brain off. He doesn't let his mind wander to anything but what's on the screen in front of him. The theater's cold- that doesn't matter. Phil's got his hand on the top of Dan's thigh- that doesn't matter, watch the movie. He's biting on Dan's neck, fuck, it's getting hard to breathe- that doesn't matter. Is there still coke under their bed at home? Did Phil get more from Chris- fuck, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Dan tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter.

But it matters. He knows it matters.

When the movie's over, Dan's got a hard-on and no air in his lungs. He leans against the brick wall of the theater, letting the cool breeze wash over his face, and Phil's all over him. Pressing kisses to his collarbone, leaving hickey's below his ear. He needs some space, needs to take a deep breath. Fuck, he needs-

He pushes Phil away, and the older man stumbles a little. He's pouting now, head cocked to the side like he doesn't understand. For all it's worth, Dan doesn't understand either.

How long has it been since they did cocaine together?

He can't remember.

They walk home, both on opposite sides of the sidewalk. They don't speak- Dan wouldn't know what to say anyway- but their knuckles bump together. Dan wants to hold his hand.

He doesn't.

\---

When they get home, Dan barely manages to get the front door closed before Phil's shoving him against it.

He's always like this when he's high.

His hands slide up the front of Dan's shirt, palms pressing flat against his chest. Dan gasps out, the sound echoing through the room. Phil's hands are cold, taking what they want and running away with it.

Phil lunges forward to kiss the hollow of his throat, and Dan let's his head slam back against the door. His hands grab at Phil's hair, Phil's shirt, the loops on Phil's denim jeans. Anything he can reach. His own moans flood the room, he hears them, but he doesn't register them forming in his throat. Phil bites hard on his neck.

They hardly have sex on the bed anymore.

Phil rips at the buttons on his shirt. He helps him with it, sliding out of his pants while he's at it, but then he stops. He stops and grabs Phil's hand. Thinks that this could be the last time they ever have sex again.

Their bedroom is messy, something that neither of them really care that much about. Dan sweeps all the extra pillows off the bed, and then pushes Phil onto it.

They kiss like they breathe; desperate, lungs aching for something, anything, more. Dan's hands tangle in Phil's hair, fingers locked tight around black strands. He tugs at it, eliciting a soft sound from Phil. It sends waves of want through his stomach, cock straining against his boxers.

Phil's still got his shirt on, and Dan sort of wants to rip it off at this point. He doesn't though, just sits back on his knees and fixes Phil with this look. The other man seems to get the hint right away, and he starts stripping as Dan goes in search of lube.

They use lube so much, it's just stored around the flat in random places. He finds some behind the television in their bedroom and wonders how it got there.

But then Phil's whining, "Dan, come back," and suddenly he doesn't care all that much.

Phil's beautiful, always has been, and Dan thinks it's awfully unfair that he can just lie there and still be the best thing in the room. His dark hair is splayed across the mattress, eyes still black. Dan wonders if that's from the drug or lust. Maybe both.

He crawls between Phil's legs, settling there. The bottle of lube in his hand is almost empty, so he uses it sparingly. He knows that Phil likes a bit of pain anyway. He barely covers his fingers with it.

Phil's got his legs wrapped around Dan's waist now, eagerly pushing him forward with the heels of his feet. His mouth is slightly parted, and Dan watches as his tongue pokes out to sweep across his bottom lip. Fuck, he wants to kiss him.

So he does.

It's messy and Phil bites his lip too hard, but he doesn't pull away, even when he can't breathe.

"Dan," Phil whimpers against his mouth, breaths coming out in rough pants. "Dan, hurry. Please."

And even now, lying in bed with Dan between his legs, Phil's still got manners.

This fucking boy will be the death of him, Dan decides.

He leans down and kisses Phil again, keeping it short and sweet this time. He smiles a little, reaching up with his clean hand to brush hair out of Phil's eyes. The older man looks like he's perfectly at ease, bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

He is the definition of lovely.

Dan presses kisses to the side of Phil's neck as his left hand comes down to brush the older man's hole. He feels him clench up for a moment, only to let out a shaky breath a second later and say, "babe, please. You're taking too long."

The brunet chuckles at that, breathy into the side of Phil's neck. He feels the other man shiver against him. Phil's always been a bit desperate when it comes to sex, but Dan can't say he minds all that much.

He finally slips his finger into Phil, just about knuckle deep, and he feels Phil's whole body jerk with a shudder. He's tight and warm around Dan's finger, and it's suddenly hard to remember the last time they had sex.

A week ago? No, it had been longer than that.

Dan can't remember.

He racks his brain, but he can't remember.

Phil's got his mouth latched to Dan's shoulder, and he's pushing himself onto the younger man's fingers. He's making these sounds, whines laced with rasp. It's driving Dan fucking crazy.

Phil doesn't need much stretching. He usually just takes Dan, lets himself adjust that way. But Dan works him open with two fingers anyway. Wants to drag this out for as long as both of them can hold on.

He knows Phil can come from just his fingers. Knows that the dark haired man is getting close when he tightens around the digits Dan's got in him. He almost wants to make Phil come like this, where he can see exactly how the other man looks when overcome by pleasure. When he's not clouded by his own.

But Phil's shoving his hand away, muttering pleas for Dan to, “fuck me already, please. Can't take it anymore.”

Dan pulls away to find a condom. They're fucking handy, and using one means that Dan has less to clean up once both of them are finished. Plus, they're sort of starved for time here. Not that he's rushing or anything. Quite the opposite. But there's a nagging voice in the back of his head every time he looks over at the bedside clock that's telling him they've only got an hour. An hour left.

He's sliding on a condom, barely registering the fact that Phil's reached over and turned music on one of their phone's. Dan doesn't recognize the song playing, but it's slow with a heavy drum. Phil's lying on his back as he waits for Dan, foot bouncing to the beat.

When the younger man's ready, he sits back on his knees and looks down at Phil. “Ready, love?” He asks.

Phil only nods and reaches toward Dan, hands opening and closing. The brunette smiles and takes one of his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. Then, he's moving forward and placing his hands on either side of Phil's head, leaning down to kiss him.

Phil reaches down, hand wrapping around Dan's cock. His fingers are cool against the skin there, but a fire spreads through Dan's body anyway. It sets his throat aflame, toes curling, and then he's pushing into Phil with the older man's guidance.

There is no air in his lungs.

He can't breathe, doesn't remember how to, anyway. He thinks that if someone had an oxygen mask held to his face, he'd still suffocate.

He glances at Phil to see that he's got his blue eyes squeezed shut. His mouth is parted, and these little puffs of air are escaping through the gap between his lips. He's pretty, fucking beautiful, even, but Dan wants to see his eyes.

He wants to know that something so bright doesn't just burn out.

His hips are still as he reaches up, hands cradling Phil's face. He nudges his nose against Phil's cheekbone, angling his face to leave kisses everywhere. He feels Phil smile at that, breathes in this little chuckle that makes his chest vibrate. And then he pulls back and looks into Phil's eyes.

They're still black, but the ring of blue around them is visible. Clear as day. They almost shimmer as Dan admires them. He then decides that Phil's definitely the prettiest person he's ever seen.

They both silently settle that they're ready to keep moving. Phil raises his hips at the same time Dan pushes into him, shallow and careful. Their hands lace together, squeezing tight, and then Dan finds an even rhythm.

They move together so well, have since way back when a drug deal became something more. Dan wonders if selling weed to Phil was the start of something beautiful, or something tragic.

Maybe it was the start of something tragically beautiful.

Their own love story. But they're no Romeo and Juliet. God, no. Dan would die before comparing him and Phil to them.

But then again, he just might die anyway.

Dan groans when Phil rakes his nails down his back, and it's only then that he realizes he's actually being loud. He's usually quiet in bed, contrary to the popular beliefs of his friends. Phil is the loud one. It's always been that way.

But something is different today.

This feels different.

This is the first time they had sex. This is Phil being high on weed and Dan being tipsy from so many fruity wine coolers. This is sloppy kissing, and the blinds in Dan's flat opened up so that the sun shines right on Phil. Like he's a fucking angel or something.

He is. In Dan's eyes, he is.

Dan reaches up to twine his fingers in Phil's hair, holding him in place as they kiss. It's heavy and rushed, but it still takes Dan's breath away. Still makes him long for a million more of those kisses.

Phil pulls away from Dan to throw his head back, mouth open as he sucks in air like he's drowning. His knuckles are white as they clutch anything they can reach; the bed sheets, the headboard, Dan's shoulders. And then he's looking at Dan, eyes black and blue and everything that Dan's ever loved.

And now Dan's the one who feels like he's drowning.

His thrusts get faster, breathing gets louder, Phil's grip on his hair gets tighter. Phil has his legs wrapped around Dan's waist, heels of his feet edging him forward.

He hears Phil chanting a mantra of words, all breathy and strained, and he can't think. Can't think with Phil muttering, “fuck, Dan, I love you. I'm gonna come, I can't- I love you,” in his ear.

Dan's never been good with dirty talk. He asked Phil, once, how he did it so fluently. And Phil told him that it wasn't thinking. It was just saying whatever you felt.

Phil always says 'I love you,' before he comes.

Dan wonders if that's what he feels.

His hands snakes down to wrap around Phil's cock, giving it a few good jerks in time with his thrusts. He's close himself, vision starting to blur around the edges, but he always works on getting Phil off first. Thinks that Phil should be put first in anything that they do.

Phil comes in a sudden burst of shouts and white liquid painting both of their chests. His face is red from exhaustion and exertion, skin warm to the touch. And Dan swears, fucking swears, that this Phil, the one that gets hidden away beneath come-stained bed sheets and pools of sweat, is the most beautiful one.

Dan keeps pushing into Phil because he's so fucking close, and Phil is whining, oversensitive now, but he urges Dan continue. His feet push into the base of Dan's back, hips shifting so that there's not so much pressure on his prostate, and when he bites on the younger man's ear, that's it.

His chest in on fire, a red blossom spreading throughout all of his body. The tips of his fingers tingle, and he can just barely make out Phil whispering in his ear. Sounds of, “You look so good like this, baby,” and, “God, you're beautiful.” He feels beautiful. When he's with Phil, he feels like even his ugliest scars have sunlight beaming through them.

He clings to the older man for dear life, hips snapping forward as he rides this out. He finally finds it in himself to open his eyes.

All there is is white. White sheets, white knuckles, white noise.

Dan breathes Phil in, pulls out of the older man and curls up to his side. His chest is aching, a gaping fucking hole where something should be. Where his heart should be. He reckons Phil's got that tucked into his pocket, along with some cocaine and Wednesday's drug deal money.

He's almost asleep, face smushed between the mattress and Phil's shoulder. He feels his boyfriend's hands drawing shapes onto his skin, nails tickling as they drag up his spine. His whole body burns like he's been set on fire, and he wants to get in the shower and scrub at his skin until he doesn't recognize himself anymore.

Instead, he rolls over and sits up.

They've got work to do.

\---

When a dark blue van pulls up outside, Dan takes Phil's hand, and they climb inside of it together. PJ and Chris greet them with friendly smiles. Chris looks fucked up with red-ringed eyes and ruffled hair, clearly trying to numb himself as much as possible. Like he wants to be so out of it that he can't remember what they will or won't do. Who they will or won't kill.

PJ, on the other hand, looks like he's just coming down from some sort of high. His eyes are still slightly puffy, tinged the lightest shade of pink. When he says hello to them, though, his words are not jumbled together. Dan thinks that because he's their getaway driver, he may have chosen not to smoke anything until after they've completed their plan.

Smart of him, really.

Part of Dan sort of wishes PJ were high right now. Maybe he'd crash the van on the drive there.

“Ready to go?” PJ asks. “Have you got the masks? The gun?”

“Yes,” Dan says, and he wants to shout something. Wants to say, ' _ Just drive the fucking car, Peej. We haven't got all night. God, drive before I start overthinking all of this again. _ ' Instead, just he scoots closer to Phil, feeling the seat-belt buckle pressing into his hip.

PJ begins driving, the vehicle squeaking like it's ready to fall apart beneath them. The radio's on, and Chris twists the knob to turn it up. Dan doesn't recognize the song, but it sounds happy. Phil's humming it beside him, head bobbing ever so slightly as he stares out the window. He's got his hand on Dan's knee, thumb absently running across the thick denim of his jeans. Dan breathes a little easier.

It takes them twenty minutes to get to the convenience store. They chose one farther away from their homes intentionally. Dan's stomach twists when Chris pulls out a duffel bag from under the passenger's seat and throws it towards them. Phil catches it easily, and then pulls his balaclava over his face.

Fuck.

Dan's going to be sick.

He can't do this. He can't, he can't, he can't.

He has to.

Phil pulls his mask down for him. He sucks in a deep breath, and if he couldn't breathe before, it's certainly become more difficult now with a layer of fabric over his nose. His hands are shaking as PJ parks the van right outside the front of the store. And then Phil's grabbing him and they're both jumping onto asphalt before the vehicle's even stopped completely.

The store is practically empty with only a woman in the back. He barely has time to do a quick sweep of it before Phil's shouting something, and fuck, he wasn't even ready. The store clerk, an old man with salt and pepper hair, freezes, eyes wide. He's shaking, yelling at them to leave, and Dan feels nauseous.

They could leave.

They could leave and pretend this never happened.

“Put the money in the bag, man. Come on!” Phil says, and he doesn't sound like himself. He sounds like a person Dan has never known.

Phil nudges him in the side, mutters, “Take out the gun, Dan. Scare him a little.”

The weapon suddenly weighs heavy in Dan's coat pocket. His hands tremble as he pulls it out, making sure the safety's on because he doesn't want to fucking kill anyone, God, all he wants is the money. They need the money.

“Please don't hurt me,” the man behind the counter pleads, and he looks like he might cry. Dan's not fucking drunk enough for this. “I'll give you the money. Please- I have a family. Don't hurt me,” and he's sobbing now, voice quavering.

Dan's cheeks are wet, salty tears leaking through his mask.

Phil shoots Dan an empathetic look before turning back to the man. It's all business with Phil. Dan's never seen him like this before.

“Open the register. Hurry up, then,” Phil orders, and his voice booms through the store. Sends chills through Dan's body.

The old man reaches for the register and presses a button. The bottom drawer pops open, revealing stacks of money, all clipped into place. Safe. Safe, until Phil reaches out to grab them.

He's shoving bills into the duffel bag when Dan sees it. It happens in slow motion like some cliched action movie, and he doesn't react in time.

The man fumbles under the counter for something, and then pulls out a shiny, silver gun. It's small, could probably fit in the palm of Dan's hand, but his breath catches in his throat anyway. He's shaking, trying to turn the safety off on his own pistol, but he keeps missing the switch. His eyes are blurred with tears.

Phil notices the gun only a second after Dan, but by then, it's already too late. There's a click and a sudden pain in Dan's side. He drops his own gun, stumbling back one, two, three steps until he falls onto the dirty, linoleum floor.

Fuck, his head is swimming. All of this feels like a dream.

He wonders what Phil dreams about. They never talked about anything like that. Dreams. Nightmares. He doesn't think there's even a difference.

Phil's on him in a second, eyes wide with fear. He's pulled off his mask now, and Dan can see him. Really, truly, see him. He's there, all anxious and panicky and crying now, fuck, everyone's crying, and he's got his hand pressed to Dan's side.

He barely registers the pain blossoming there.

“Fuck,” Phil mutters, yanking Dan's mask off. He brushes some of his hair aside. “Fuck, we've got to get you out of here.”

There are sirens in the distance that Dan can hardly make out. He wonders if it's the cops or an ambulance. The woman in the back of the store must of called them. Dan knew he should've told her to come up front and sit the fuck down. He knew- fuck. He can't think straight. He wonders if he'll die. He wonders if Phil's just going to leave him here to avoid going to jail.

“This is not going to feel too great,” Phil tells him, swinging the duffel bag onto his shoulder. He then moves to hook his hands under Dan's armpits. “I'm sorry, baby.”

And then Phil's pulling him towards the double doors.

His body drags across the tiled floor, and then outside. The asphalt is not as smooth as it should be, and his lower half bumps along anything and everything on the way to the van. The pain spreads through his body like a wildfire, burning all the way to the tips of his fingers.

His vision is so blurred that he can't see Phil anymore, and fuck, he can't breathe either. His heart beats erratically, and he hears it in his own ears. A constant  _ thump-thump-thump-thump _ . He wonders if Phil can hear it, too. He hopes Phil can hear it.

There are extra sets of hands all over his body now, and he feels himself being lifted up, placed onto the floor of the van, jerked to the side as PJ speeds off. Phil's leaning over him, blurry as hell but still there, still recognizable as he unbuttons Dan's shirt and wraps something around his side.

The ceiling of the van's got cigarette holes and many different stains on it. A lovely discoloration of something so plain. He wonders who put them there and when. Wonders how the hell this van made it through what it did. It's been scarred. Just like Dan.

He suddenly feels lighter.

Fuck, he feels infinitely lighter. He closes his eyes.

“No, Dan, you've got to keep your eyes open,” someone, no, Phil is saying. He knows that voice. Could never forget that voice. “Baby, open your eyes for me. Please,” Phil pleads, and he sounds like he's struggling to keep his voice from shattering.

Dan's just trying to remember the details of his face.

There's a light tap on his cheek which progressively gets harder, but he doesn't have the energy to turn his head away. Instead, he groans, brows furrowing together. Someone's slapping him. Phil's got cold fingers. He has always had cold fingers.

“Dan, fuck, open your eyes!” Phil's screaming, and his shoulders are being shaken now. That- that doesn't feel good. He wants to tell Phil to stop. He's suddenly forgotten how to open his mouth. “Dan, love,” Phil says desperately, calloused hands squeezing his arm too tight. “You've got to keep your eyes open. If you fall asleep, you might not wake up, and-”

“I got this,” someone says. PJ, or Chris most likely, as PJ is there getaway driver. Dan vaguely wonders when PJ ever even got his license. “Phil, hand me that bottle of water.”

And then suddenly there's something splashing onto his face, warm from stewing in the car all day long. He doesn't like it, he decides, and his eyes just barely slide open to look at the perpetrator.

Chris is kneeling above him, water bottle held upside down right over his face. He can't find it in himself to be angry. He can't find it in himself to feel anything, really.

“PJ, do you think you could drive a little faster?” Phil snaps, eyes burning with anger and worry and every other emotion that Dan's ever been able to decipher. 

“I'm fucking trying, man!” PJ shouts, but his voice sounds distant and warped. The van jerks a little as it picks up speed.

Phil reaches into his pocket suddenly, fumbling around for something. He finally pulls out a pack of cigarettes, hands shaking as he takes one. His hands always shake when he's nervous. Dan recalls them shaking as he held them on their first proper date.

Phil and Chris make Dan prop up against the seat, and he doesn't want to do that. He tries to tell them. He does, really. He just can't remember how to form words.

Phil puts the end of the cigarette between Dan's lips while Chris lights it. “Smoke,” Phil orders, and Dan musters up all of the energy in his body to do just that. It seems to help because he doesn't feel so tired anymore. He's got something else to concentrate on.

By the time he finishes the cigarette, PJ is parking in front of their apartment building. Dan frowns, confusion tugging down the corners of his mouth. Surely they should be at a hospital. Surely.

But they seem to know what they're doing as PJ and Phil stay on either side of Dan, helping him along. Chris opens the front door for them, large duffel bag hanging off of his arm.

There's money in that, Dan notes. Money that does not belong to them. Money that he took a bullet for.

He doesn't even give a shit about the money.

They try to be gentle as they carry him up the stairs, but they're short on time. Dan's breathing has become irregular, and he can feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. He knows he's lost a lot of blood. Knows that if they'll just get him stitched up, he'll be okay. Fuck, he hopes he'll be okay.

He's not ready to die yet. He hasn't- fuck, he hasn't seen Phil enough. Hasn't properly memorized every freckle on his nose. He needs more time. He needs just a little more time.

Their apartment is cluttered, PJ and Phil nearly tripping multiple times as they take Dan into the bathroom. They sit him on the floor, and he rests his back against the bathtub. Phil's shouting things, commands for them to follow, and they all run off in search of items. Chris returns with some clean towels from the laundry room. PJ leans over Dan to put the stopper in the bathtub and fill it with water. Phil comes back with needle and thread.

Dan doesn't object when Phil rips the buttons off of his shirt while trying to completely pry it from his body. Doesn't object when the cloth around his side is peeled off, and a towel starts rubbing at his wound. Cleaning the area, Chris says. So it doesn't get infected. He at least seems partially sober now.

Phil's not a fucking doctor, has no idea what he's doing, but Dan sees this look of determination on his face. All of the fear, the worry, is pushed aside to make room for something else. Something bigger.

Threading the needle takes a while as Phil's hands are shaking so badly. At one point, Dan almost passes out again. PJ prevents this from happening by shoving an open beer in Dan's hand and telling him to drink. He thinks the alcohol was left in the bathroom by himself or Phil or maybe someone else a few days ago, but he doesn't question it. Maybe he can even ask Peej to get him another one after this. Fuck, maybe he could go out numb.

Now that's an idea.

Once Phil's got the thread ready, he swallows thickly, glances up at Dan, and says, “Baby, this might sting. But I need you to keep as still as you can, okay?”

And Dan nods because he feels that if he tries to speak, his bones will shatter.

But Phil's here. Phil's here to put him back together.

The first initial poke hurts, and he flinches. He doesn't have the energy to move much, though, so after a while, he just sucks it up and takes it. He's felt worse pain than this. He's been shot. He's taken cock up his ass. This is nothing. He is a seasoned veteran.

He vaguely registers Chris holding his hand through all of it, squeezing a little too tight, and PJ placing a damp wash cloth on his forehead. Phil's so concentrated on Dan that he doesn't seem to notice the other two people in the room, but Dan notices. He does.

And he's never been so grateful for them.

Once he's all stitched up, Phil forbids him to move even an inch as they wrap bandage after bandage around his waist. To help the stitches stay in place. To keep him from bleeding out.

He stays on the bathroom floor while everyone else cleans up. There's blood on every available surface. Dan wonders if their sink will ever be completely white again, or if it will stay forever tinted pink.  No matter how much bleach they scrub it with, there will always be a reminder that this happened.

Good. He's glad.

Something else to keep him up at night.

Phil sits next to him when it's all said and done, and he looks disheveled with hands coated in blood. He hasn't washed them yet. Dan doesn't ask him to, just leans into him, or it might be the other way around. Maybe it's a mutual thing. Maybe they're both holding each other up, sitting tall in the middle of all this chaos. Maybe they are Gods. 

Dan's not sure how long they stay on the bathroom floor. It feels like hours, but in reality, it's probably only a few minutes. PJ and Chris have been so thoughtful as to dispose of all the bloody bandages. They've also wiped down the counters as much as possible.

Dan makes a mental note to take them out for beers later. When he can properly breathe again.

Phil is the first to stand. He smiles softly at Dan, eyes full of warmth. He holds out his hand and Dan takes it. Squeezes gently. And then he's being helped to his feet.

"Look at this!" Chris shouts, running into the bathroom. He's got the duffel bag now, and it's unzipped to reveal all of the money inside. "There's got to be at least a two thousand bucks in here!"

"That's rent for like, four months," PJ says, blindingly bright smile on his face. "I can't believe we actually pulled this off."

"I wouldn't say we pulled it off," Dan says, and he doesn't mean to sound bitter, but it comes out like that anyway. "I nearly died."

"But you didn't," Chris says, reaching into the bag. "And because you took such a heroic hit for us, Peej and I have decided to let you and Phil keep most of the money."

"We only need a couple hundred of it," PJ shrugs, now reaching into his pocket to pull out his IPod. He grins a little as he connects it to the shitty speakers sat on the bathroom counter. Music fades into the room. "With the money Chris and I make from selling, we're pretty set." 

"Here," Chris tosses Phil the bag after taking two hundred dollars from it. "You guys deserve it more than we do."

Dan smiles a little and peeks into the bag. They'll use the money for rent and new clothes and bad habits. They don't need it, no. He's starting to realize that maybe they never really did. As long as he's with Phil, he doesn't care whether they're living on the street or in a castle. 

Home isn't a place. It's the people you're with.

The music gets louder, and Dan doesn't recognize the song, but he likes it anyway. It reminds him of old cars and vintage clothes and pretty smiles. It reminds him of stupid aesthetics, and dark hair and blue eyes. He grins and looks at Phil.

And he’s never been happier. 

  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> you can send me lil messages at galacticphil.tumblr.com/ask if you'd like.


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